Strawberries, whip cream and chocolate
by Lock Lokidottir
Summary: promp with Gogglebox and Trufflehead- magazine, jam, and bet. Sherlock never eats on a case, and that worries John. When a case goes cold and Sherlock tries to find the answer, John can only get him to eat and relish it in one damn way.


'Sherlock.'

No answer.

'Sherlock.'

Aaaaand no answer.

'_Sherlock.'_

Silence.

'_**Sherlock!'**_

The man sat across from him, reading probably the most boring magazine John had ever laid eyes upon- '_Forensic pathology: a history'_.

You could see Sherlock's eyebrows rise, unimpressed, through his dark, curly fringe. Sherlock Holmes didn't _do_ submissive. No one- not even the fierce Army doctor (who he could tell was getting more and more agitated by the minute)- would tell him what to do. It just wasn't done.

'You have to eat.'

Oooh, an imperative? Sherlock tried to contain a (loving) smirk. The good doctor was always looking out for him, and don't get me wrong- Sherlock was grateful (yes, we are actually talking about the same man here- Sherlock Holmes was grateful for Doctor John H. Watson, and always will be.).

Anyway, getting on: the case wasn't closed- there was still so many things he had to wrap up- and the magazine held all the answers. Sherlock_ never_ ate one a case- it made him slow, thick and fatter- and couldn't his lover see that, the more he was interrupted, the longer the case would take?

However, John could see it in a whole different light. Sherlock was _ignoring_ him- but he also couldn't focus on the words on the page. From what John Watson had seen, he had been on the same page for half an hour. Heck, for the past five minutes the grey eyes off the man across from him had been focused solely on one word, not reading, not taking in.

John slouched back in his armchair, defeated. Why did the man- the beautiful, graceful, and damn stubborn- man have to be so difficult all the time? It was like living, eating, dealing with a fully grown child protégé. And- the Doctor hated to admit it- almost impossible.

The doctor knew Sherlock hadn't eaten for days now. Two? Three? Maybe even _four_ whole days Sherlock hadn't let a morsel of food cross his lips. The only 'food' he had gotten is the tea that John had brewed him- and half the time that was left to go stone cold as he worked through the night on a case.

The case. Those two words made John's blood boil as the taller man got up, his magazine falling to the floor soundlessly, stretched and padded into the kitchen. John wanted to get up out and- wait a sec. Hang on.

The Doctors heart leapt slightly- was Sherlock really going to eat something? His heart was pounding as he heard the fridge open, and a wet sounding splat on the counter. John couldn't believe his ears- a gentle clink of jars as they were rummaged through? Those sounds- sounds like Sherlock was actually cooking for himself rather than starve a moment longer- made John's eyes wide with surprise and a smile spread across his face.

And, quite frankly, Sherlock cooking in his minds eye was the sexiest thing John had ever seen.

'Sherlock?'

That time, instead of bellowing it out like the previous time, it was spoken softly; a question. This time though, when there was no answer, John didn't get mad; it was spoken so low, so quietly that surely Sherlock hadn't heard.

Getting up and crossing the room into the kitchen, John was greeted by the sight of Sherlock leaning over the counter, his perfectly fitted clothes creasing slightly. As Sherlock straightened up, his blazer slid down, covering that purple shirt that John loved _oh__-so-much_.

John's palms were sweating. He was sure his pupils were blown wide, leaving very little of that royal blue iris showing. He also ran a hand through his hair, and accidentally gulped so hard that he was sure it was audible- though, when Sherlock carried on with whatever he was doing (John couldn't see- it was blocked by Sherlock's lean body) he almost let out a sigh of relief.

John carefully wrapped his arms around his lovers waist, kissed the shell of his ear then-

'FUCK!'

-jumped back in surprise. It wasn't a meal that Sherlock was cooking, god no- it was a severed head, sat in the pan, it's tongue lolling out like a dogs. That delicious smell that John had thought was something nice, like spaghetti bolognaise? Nope. A freshly cooked, severed head. _Delicious._

Sherlock carried on regardless, pouring chemicals into the wok (the best wok in the house, John thought with some annoyance) and watching as the flesh fell away from the skull, as did the hair (the eyes and tongue were simply dissolving, becoming a jelly like substance), poking it occasionally with a wooden spoon.

'Sherlock,' John choked out, once he got over the shock. He glanced at his hand; it was still shaking. 'What do you think you're _doing?_'

'Bored.' Said Sherlock matter-of-factly. 'And I need a new skull.' He looked up at his lover, before glancing back into the pan in time to see the black fluid of the pupil swirl then disappear into the socket. 'Problem?'

John started to laugh hysterically. 'Problem? Oh, god….'

'John? It was a bet- sort of. Basically Anderson didn't believe me that the first victim was disposed of in this way. I'm going to collect the brain, tongue and eye jelly and prove him wrong- I'll keep it in the fridge until he comes here on a drugs bust-'

'Sherlock!' John snapped, eyes snapping open and glaring at the nonsensical man in front of him. 'Please, don't take this the wrong way, but _shut up_. When do you care- let alone place a bet- against _Anderson, _for gods sake?'

Sherlock shut up.

The doctor held his head in his hands, tugging slightly on his blond hair, before running a hand round his face and rubbing his eyes. John was incredibly tired, and a few thoughts- such as why Sherlock was in the kitchen, cooking a severed head in the wok- raced through his mind. John turned away, and he suddenly felt his shoulder ache. _Oh, brilliant._This was really his day- why couldn't he have a normal day, filled with normal pointless things?

John's life was never going to be like that, he thought with some dismay. John turned on his heel with an intention of having a hot bath and then an early night. A question- one that made him come out into the kitchen in the first place- crossed his mind and he stopped dead.

'Aren't you going to eat, Sherlock?'

'Are you?' Sherlock shot back. John frowned- the man he was in love with was most defiantly a child with a glandular problem.

'That's not fair. Answer my question.'

Sherlock turned his attention back to the head, giving it a prod before wrinkling his nose and pushing his clear plastic goggles back up his nose.

John sighed… before his eyes fell on the jar of jam on the counter, less than an arms lenth away from him.

John turned and glanced at Sherlock, checking that he was absorbed in his experiment to notice as John unscrewed the lid of the jam.

Jam, of course, why didn't he think of it before? Something sweet- Sherlock's one and only weakness. John was naturally first (when Sherlock told him that, his heart melted), but unfortunately not edible, so jam was first place for a starving Sherlock.

Holding his breath, he dipped a spoon in. Gently held the spoon, aimed…. And let go.

The catapulted bit of jam landed squarely in that incredibly pretty ebony hair of the detective, before sliding down his fringe and into his face. He barely had time to look up, before John dipped his hands in the small jar and brought the sticky, red substance up to his face, before smearing two horizontal lines across the shocked Sherlock's cheekbones.

To John's surprise…. Sherlock laughed, abandoning the experiment and using his cat like tongue to lick away a blob of jam on John's hand. John used this opportunity to shove as many spoonful's of jam into that mouth, and he managed to get around seven laden spoons in there before Sherlock hugged him, still chortling in his ear. John blushed- before he felt something incredibly wet and slimy running down his neck.

He carefully raised a hand to his neck, before the fast moving slime went down his collar- he raised it to the light. It was thick, grey and incredibly pliable, and rubbing it between his fingers horrible realisation hit his stomach.

'Sherlock! You put a _brain_ down my collar?'

Sherlock really looked like the cat that had got the cream; that smile was from ear to ear. He was still smudged with strawberry jam all over his neck and face.

'You shouldn't have _attacked _me then, John.'

John couldn't help but smile and roll his eyes at the problem child; trust him to be dramatic.

'Hm, but seriously, putting brains on me after I did jam was a bit unfair.'

'But you still love me though.' Sherlock grinned, his grey-blue-green eyes flashing; John's heart melted as he saw a brief flash of insecurity before Sherlock internally tried to quench it. John took Sherlock's face in his hands and gently kissed him, before wrapping his arms around his neck.

'Of course I do, you silly man. I love you.'

'I love you too John.' Sherlock rested his head on the top of Johns.

After a pause, John said: 'Now please, eat something. You look like paper.'

Sherlock pulled away, and John saw that famous crooked smile flash across his face. 'Will you feed it to me?'

'If I have to, yes.'

'Will they all be as fun, and rather frighteningly arousing, as this one has been?'

John's eyes scanned the small kitchen, checking the cupboards for all the items that flashed across his mind- whip cream, strawberries, chocolate, jam…

John grinned. Tonight was going to be very fun indeed.


End file.
